


Check Engine Light

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [50]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: F/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 15:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: A little update on what Hanella have been up to.





	Check Engine Light

Stella ascended the steps of the brownstone with trepidation.  She rang a buzzer at the side of the door and when the door clicked in response, she opened it and stepped into a dim foyer.  The hardwood floors creaked under her heels. To the left was an invitingly open set of french doors that led her to a reception area.  A young man, probably the Ian she’d booked the appointment with on the phone, sat a desk with his back turned to the bay windows behind him, speaking low on the phone as he typed.  It gave Stella the opportunity to assess the room.

 

The small room was sparsely furnished with two cherrywood chairs against one wall, separated by a small, square table littered with magazines.  Against the opposite wall was a long, thin table which sat a diffuser quietly pumping a scented fog into the air. It smelled of eucalyptus. There was music playing somewhere, something low and soft, almost like a hum, but she couldn’t find the source.  At the back of the room was a closed door painted a shade of purple that was a shade darker than lavender. 

 

“You must be Stella,” Ian said, hanging up the phone.  “You can hang your coat on the hooks behind you if you’d like.  I’ll let Janine know you’re here.”

 

_ Janine _ ?  Stella frowned a little at the informality and then turned.  There was indeed a wooden strip with four hooks inconspicuously placed behind one of the doors.  Two of the hooks were already taken. As soon as she removed her overcoat and placed it on one of the empty hooks, the purple door opened.

 

“Please, come in,” Janine Silverman said, opening her arm out to Stella to guide her into the inner sanctum.  “I’m Janine. It’s nice to meet you.”

 

Stella went through the purple door, the doctor’s hand softly resting at her back, with even more trepidation than she had going up the stairs.  The woman that beckoned her inside looked like a child playing dress up in her mother’s clothes, not a psychologist with a PhD from Cambridge, as her CV had stated.  She was smaller in stature than even Stella was, though given the fact that Stella was wearing a pair of three-inch heels and the doctor could very well be barefoot, they may have been the exact same height.  Her skirt and sweater were both black and oversized, dripping limply off narrow shoulders and hips. Even her glasses, which were tortoiseshell and round-rimmed, seemed much too big for her small, heart-shaped face.  The biggest thing about her was the halo of wavy black hair that framed her face and rested like a cloud against her shoulders.

 

This was a mistake, thought Stella, even as she sank down in a much too comfortable chair upholstered in purple velvet and Dr. Silverman -  _ Janine _ \- sat down in an identical chair in front of her.  She didn’t know what her therapist back in London was thinking, recommending this woman to her.  They weren’t a thing alike, for one thing. There wasn’t even a desk in this room, just the chairs, a single bookcase stuffed full of books so that the shelves sagged in the middle, and a squat table beneath a stained glass window where another diffuser sat dutifully sputtering the same eucalyptus fog as the other.  Stella liked her therapy to be formal and serious, not new-agey and peaceful. She liked titles, not first names. It was supposed to smell of leather, not eucalyptus. If she needed woodwinds and aromatherapy, she would’ve gone to a day spa. 

 

“Are you comfortable?” Janine asked.

 

“No,” Stella answered honestly.

 

Janine gave a brief nod of sympathy.  “Therapy is rarely comfortable for anyone.”

 

“I’ve been in some form of therapy for over half my life.”

 

“You were referred to me weren’t you?  Helena gave you my name?”

 

Stella had never thought of Dr. Wells as ‘Helena’ before in her life.  It took her a moment to respond. “Yes. I’d been with Dr. Wells for nearly ten years.”

 

“I’m sure you’re thinking by now, why on earth would Helena send me here?”

 

It was difficult not to squirm from discomfort.  Stella found herself flexing her toes back so that her shoe slipped a little off her heel and she immediately curled her toes to bring it back.  She told herself to relax. “You’re not at all similar,” she finally said. “I would’ve thought…”

 

“I know a lot about you already, Stella.  Not from Helena, don’t worry about that. You answered me honestly when I asked if you were comfortable, which tells me you don’t need coddling, as some might.  You’ve been discreetly looking around the room, no doubt for certificates on the walls, and it makes you a little nervous that I don’t hang them on the wall. You flinch a little when I refer to Dr. Wells as Helena, but you’ve been with her for a decade, so I can also say with a certain amount of confidence that you prefer professional distances be kept at all times, which I’m going to go out on a limb to say that it probably extends to your own profession.”

 

Stella had to admit she was rather impressed by Janine’s blunt assessment, delivered in a very matter of fact, but kind tone.  It was then, as she scrutinized the woman in front of her, that she realized that there were fine lines near her eyes and mouth.  The light caught a few strands of silver in her hair that glimmered as she spoke. She wasn’t as young as Stella thought she was, and she was quite astute.

 

“I have no doubt that Helena is a wonderful therapist,” Janine said.  “My approach is probably different.”

 

“What is your approach?”

 

“You talk, I listen.  I don’t take notes, because how can I listen if I’m taking notes?  I might ask a question or two, might hand out some advice as I see fit.  I like to think of our hour together as a guided conversation.”

 

“Alright.”

 

“So, tell me something about yourself.  Let me get to know you a little better.”

 

“I teach.”

 

“What do you teach?”

 

“Criminal Justice.  It’s new to me. I was in law enforcement for over twenty years back in London.”

 

“Why the change?”

 

“My husband is American and his family is here in New York.  He’d moved to London for me before we got married and then we thought, well I thought, that we should try to make a go of it in the states.  I started looking for opportunities that could allow us to make the move.”

 

“How long have you been married?”

 

“A year.”

 

“So, new husband, new job, new home,  _ new therapist _ , all within a short period of time.”

 

“I’ve never considered myself to be averse to change, but I have felt a bit overwhelmed as late.”

 

“Your check engine light came on.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“It’s an analogy my husband made once.  I was explaining that sometimes in life, we could be going about our days as normal, and then suddenly you realize that something is wrong, you just don’t know what, and that’s when you come to someone like me to talk it out.  He likened it to the check engine light coming on for a car.”

 

“Is your husband a mechanic?”

 

Janine chuckled.  “No, he’s an airline pilot.  So, you have a lot of change you’re dealing with lately.  It isn’t any wonder you’d be feeling overwhelmed.”

 

“Perhaps overwhelmed is too strong of a word.  But, I don’t feel like myself.”

 

The hour at the therapist’s office seemed to fly by.  Before Stella knew it, there was the low, brief sound of a chime that interrupted her ramblings about some difficulty she was experiencing with a student.  Janine asked her to please finish and let her know there was only a few minutes left of her session. It was different from the rushed and abrupt way her sessions had always ended in the past.

 

“I hope you’ll return,” Janine said to her as she guided her to the door like she was saying goodbye to an old friend.  “You don’t have to decide at this moment, just let Ian know when you’re ready.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Stella checked her phone when she reached the sidewalk.  She typed a brief text to Hank that she was on her way home and he texted back that he’d put their order in for the Thai place they liked.  She hailed a taxi and reached the loft within twenty minutes, a feat rarely accomplished when traveling cross town.

 

Still, the Thai had arrived before Stella did.  Take-away boxes lined the makeshift kitchen island at which Hank stood, barefoot and shirtless, whiskey glass in hand.  Stella put her purse and briefcase down by the door, hung her jacket, and sauntered over to Hank while untucking her blouse from her skirt.

 

“Good evening, Professor,” Hank said without looking up from the book that was open in front of him.

 

Stella slid into the space between Hank and the oversized butcher’s block, took the whiskey glass from his hand, took a sip, and then set it down behind her by the take-away boxes.  She ran her hands over Hank’s chest, scratching lightly at his abdomen before she tugged on the waistband of his jeans.

 

“Will you do something for me?” she asked.

 

“Does it involve a lot of nudity and whipped cream?”  He was already unbuttoning her shirt and she didn’t stop him.

 

“I went to the new therapist today.”

 

“You tell her about the dreams?”

 

“I told her I haven’t been sleeping and about the dream diary, yes.”

 

“Good.”

 

“But, she helped me realize something more important.”

 

“Yeah?  What’s that?”

 

Before Stella answered, she let Hank remove her blouse and toss it into the void.  She unsnapped his jeans slid her hand into his jockey shorts, stroking firmly to bring him up to her speed.  She’d been thinking about fucking him since she’d left the doctor’s office.

 

Hank groaned when she removed her hand and then took over the prep work as she reached under her skirt to slide her panties off.  She stepped out of the soaked, silky lingerie and then spread her feet apart as she leaned into the butcher’s block and braced her hands on the side.  The small countertop was a personal favorite of hers for fucking, but they’d have to be careful so not to knock their dinner to the floor.

 

As he bent slightly, Hank wrenched Stella’s skirt to her hips.  Her toes lifted as he slid inside her and she used his slow thrust to perch rather precariously at the edge of the block.  She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck and he took a firm grip on her ass.

 

“You were going to tell me something important,” Hank said, fucking her slowly and deeply.  The take-away boxes rattled on the countertop and she clenched the muscles in her thighs to lift herself up and away from the surface. 

 

“I haven’t been feeling like myself.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So many things have changed.”

 

“Not this though.”

 

“No, not this.”

 

“We’d totally get gold medals in the Olympics.”

 

“For what?”

 

“Fucking.”

 

“I don’t think there’s any such event.”

 

“There should be.”

 

“I don’t like it when you call me Professor.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“That’s not who I...oh fuck, yes, right...keep doing that.”  

 

Hank seemed to be favoring his weight on his left side and Stella dropped one arm down to the table to brace herself and lean into it.  It made the angle of penetration painfully sweet, sharp, but pleasurable. 

 

“I’m gonna come,” Hank groaned.

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

 

“Just a little har...ah ffffff…”  Stella’s toes curled as her orgasm snapped through her body.  Her muscles tensed and shook and her nails dug into Hank’s shoulder.  She hung onto him, riding our his own release as he pressed her down to the counter and pawed her hips.  She breathed in the humid scent of sweat and sex mixed with the lingering hint of eucalyptus that seemed to have followed her home.  He slid from her quivering thighs, but they stayed in a sticky embrace.

 

“Gold medal fucking,” Hank panted into her hair.  

 

“I want to be your Sherlock again.”

 

“What?”  Hank pulled back and looked down at her.  “Back to London?”

 

“No, not that.  You haven’t...when I come home at night, you ask me, ‘how was your day, Professor?’ and it...so many things are different now.  I want to know that even if things are different, nothing’s changed.”

 

“You will always,  _ always _ be my Sherlock, Sherlock.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Wasn’t that part of my vows?  I could swear it was. That and the gold medal fucking for eternity.”

 

“I suppose I should get cleaned up.”

 

“You want wine with dinner or do you have papers to grade?”

 

“A glass of red.”

 

“Coming right up.”

 

Stella slipped from the countertop and found her shirt along the way to the bedroom.  She cleaned herself up in the bathroom and changed into a t-shirt and sleep shorts. Hank had a glass of wine ready for her and dinner in bowls waiting when she was done.

 

“Tell me about your day, Sherlock,” he said as he handed her the wine and she sat beside him on the couch.  She breathed deeply and felt a little more like herself for the first time in weeks.

 

The End


End file.
